


pretty fragile things

by Areiton



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Allison Argent & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Alternate Universe - College/University, Boxing, Crossdressing, Erica Reyes & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Genderfluid Character, Genderfluid Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Panties, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-11 12:52:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15972686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: Stiles Stilinski likes pretty things.Derek Hale just likesStiles.





	pretty fragile things

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, this is just fluff and smut that was supposed to be angsty and turned out so soft? I don't know. I have a fascination with Stiles in pretty things and this is me writing that. Enjoy. <3

He's not complicated. He's a little bit broken, but he thinks that's different. Complicated means work, means finding someone who _wants_ him enough to put up with his eccentricities.

Broken means he doesn't care if he ever finds that person.

 

~*~

 

He meets Derek Hale on a sticky hot Wednesday in August. His hair is caught in his red lipstick and he can feel sweat on the small of his back and Lydia is unpacking his books with narrow eyed determination.

Allison is sprawled on his bed being useless and gorgeous and Derek Hale walks into the room and he thinks, this is the worst thing that's ever happened to me.

He thinks it might be the best, too.

 

~*~

 

He learned how to walk in heels from Erica.

He learned how to contour his makeup from the drag queens who adopted him at the Jungle.

Allison taught him how to laugh and that mango chutney on fish tacos was actual heaven.

Lydia taught him more than he can say and it terrifies him to think she's leaving soon.

His father and his deputies taught him how to get away with murder and throw a mean right hook.

His mother--his mother taught him to love lace and silk and tiny sun dresses in pale pretty prints.

 

~*~

 

Derek is...different. He's intimidatingly pretty, with muscles for days and a shy smile that makes Stiles crazy.

He's an athlete and his side of the room is constantly cluttered with football gear and playbooks and an ever changing schedule of practices and games.

He's gruf and doesn't talk and his eyebrows are truly fearsome things and--

He watches Stiles like he’s something exotic and dangerous.

Stiles know guys like Derek--guys who are all overdone masculinity and he knows how they see people like him.

Except Derek isn’t making his life miserable, isn’t making fun of his dresses and his heels--he’s just quiet, and watchful and Stiles isn’t sure what to do with that.

 

~*~

 

The first day of class, he wears skinny jeans that clings to his ass, half boots that give him three inches of height, and a long pink tunic dusted with roses and edged with lace. He spends over an hour on his makeup, and painting his nails, and slides his mother’s ring on his pinkie.

Derek watches him from his bed while he gets dressed and as Stiles pulls his bag on his shoulder, he says, softly, “Have a good day.”

It sounds so hopeful and genuine and shy that Stiles pauses, and glances back at him, rumpled and sleepy and flashes a tiny, red smile. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

Derek flushes the prettiest pink, and scowls as Stiles pulls the door closed behind him.

 

~*~

 

He’s quiet to Stiles’ constant noise, gruff to Stiles’ babble, hard to Stiles’ soft. It takes less than two hours to figure out he’s an athlete and by the next morning, half the football team has descended on their dorm room.

The first one who sees Stiles in a long peasant skirt and tight tank top, curled up with his laptop and fairy headphones on, kinda giggles and nudges Derek.

He sees the scowl Derek directs at him and his lips tighten.

He knew there would be assholes, people who didn’t understand why a dude wore dresses and eyeliner, but he’d _hoped_ his roommate wouldn’t be one of them. It’s not like it was new--he’d dealt with assholes since the first time he tripped out of Lydia’s house in her jade green slip dress.

He ignored the mocking looks and Derek’s furrowed eyebrows, and blinked away tears as he picked out a new pale green plaid shirt dress.

 

~*~

 

Sometimes he thinks he’d go insane without his girls. Without fierce, giggling Allison, without Erica’s steel edged vulnerability, without Lydia’s sharp tongue and sweet smile and gentle concern that manifests so often as control.

“Stay still,” Erica snaps when he twitches and he huffs, but does as he’s told and Allison smirks before she settles in his lap, the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth as she carefully applies his eyeliner.

They like dressing him up, and even though he’s better at it, he usually lets them.

“No,” Lydia barks, her voice sharp and tinny from the laptop. “Mason, pay attention.”

Derek spills into the room in basketball shorts and wet spiky hair, his eyes going comically wide as he takes in the scene--Erica painting Stiles’ nails, Mason pawing through his overflowing closet at Lydia’s direction, Allison perched in Stiles’ lap, throwing a dirty grin at the boy in the doorway.

“Um,” Derek says, eloquently.

Erica caps the nail polish and rolls to her feet. Eyes him critically. “You should let me paint your nails,” she says.

“Um,” Derek repeats.

“Cut it out,” Stiles says affectionately, and Allison hisses. He would roll his eyes at her but he doesn’t want them stabbed out so he obediently goes still as she finishes and then taps her ass to get her up. Grins at Derek. “Ignore them.”

Derek flushes, gaze skittering down Stiles bare torso and slim hips. “I don’t mind,” he murmurs, and Stiles blinks, startled.

Erica cheers and drags him to the bed, plopping down and pulling out a sparkling pink. “Use blue,” Stiles says, and both of them look at him. He shrugs. “Blue’s pretty.”

Derek blushes, and Stiles turns away, smiling, to do his lipstick.

 

~*~

 

The girls abandon him within thirty minutes of hitting the club, scattering for drinks and dancing and Erica is pulled into a downright filthy kiss by a girl with a predatory smile and legs for days.

Stiles smirks at Derek as he stands there, awkward in his tight jeans and the grey tank top that the girls insisted was appropriate for the club. His nails are blue and his eyes are wide and Stiles bumps him with his hip and says, “Buy me a drink, sweetheart.”

Derek follows him.

To the bar, and watches as one of the queens squeals a greeting and drags him into a hug.

To the tiny table where Stiles bounces in place, his skirt swishing around his thighs.

To the dance floor, where Stiles laughs, and drags him close, dancing sweet and dirty, and teasing before he spins away, into someone else’s arms.

Derek follows, all the way to the taco truck where Stiles orders a dozen fish tacos with extra mango chutny, a bag of salty tortilla chips and fresh guac and he sits across from Derek, his heels on the table next to them, his bare feet framed by Derek’s big boots, and tries to figure out this quiet boy who laughs so shyly and scowls at his dresses with his friends, and lets Erica paint his nails with his mouth open in quiet wonder.

“I don’t get you,” Stiles says, before licking mango juice from his finger and Derek watches him, a flush in the tips of his ears.

“Same,” he murmurs, breathless and soft.

 

~*~

 

Derek jerks upright, eyes wide and Stiles gives him a lazy smile.

He's in loose, torn jeans, battered converse, a soft black and white plaid pulled over a two more layers.

There's a hint of eyeliner around his eyes but he looks almost shockingly normal and he knows it. He watches Derek, carefully, as he gives him a two finger salute and heads for the door, saying, “See ya later, sweetheart.”

He gets to the door and Derek stumbles from bed, catches it as Stiles opens the door and leans close, a smile in his eyes as he answers, “Have a good day, Stiles.”

For a moment, he lingers, torn between pulling away and pushing close, and he thinks maybe he's starting to understand.

 

~*~

 

Derek watches him.

Constantly.

When Stiles is in jeans and plaid and studying on his bed.

When Stiles is in torn sweats, doing his nails and watching Netflix.

When Stiles pulls on tights and boots and lacy dresses and his wig.

It doesn't seem to matter--because Derek always watches him.

Open wonder and soft fondness in his eyes, Derek always watches him.

The only time he looks away is when his football team clusters close, and Stiles--

Stiles has no idea what to do with that.

 

~*~

 

Sometimes he comes back to their room, and Derek hasn't seen him yet. He always likes that, because Derek's eyes are always wide and hopeful and slowly soften into that look Stiles can't define but is quickly becoming addicted to.

He's in a new dress, a gift from Lydia, and he knows he looks amazing, the leather top stretched across his broad shoulders and sculpted torso, spilling into a tight short skirt. The lace overlay that sweeps to the top of his combat boots and twists distractingly around his long legs softens the hard edges and his bright red lipstick and nailpolish provide a eye catching pop of color in his black leather and pale skin.

He thinks Derek will adore it.

But when he pushes open the door, Derek…

Derek is sprawled on his bed, shirt pulled up to his chin, and boxers tucked under his balls. Most of his dick is hidden by the hand wrapped around himself and Stiles is still trying to figure out what the hell is happening, stumbling backwards, when Derek chokes out his name.

He says it--wrong. Soft and yearning, like _Stiles_ is everything he wants, like Stiles standing there is everything he needs to come.

Derek groans and Stiles can _see_ a drop of precome ooze out of his flushed cock.

He shoves the door closed and stumbles across the room to sit on the bed next to him, lace brushing the hand Derek has clenched in the sheets. Derek makes a choked noise, almost a sob, and it's so goddamn hot, Stiles wants to come out of his skin.

“Don't stop, sweetheart,” he murmurs and Derek whines, his hips punching up. “God, you look amazing, just like this.”

He can feel his cock hardening, answering the impossibly sexy sight of Derek Hale jerking off. “What do you think about, like this, sweetheart?” he breathes.

“You,” Derek murmurs, almost lost under the slick slide of his fist.

Stiles moans and drags Derek's free hand from the blankets, onto the warm skin of his thigh barely cover by lace.

Derek's fingers brush, hot through the lace, against the warm satin skin below and he comes, a wordless shout and chest splattered with come and eyes that never quite leave Stiles.

 

~*~

 

He learned how to paint his nails from Erica.

He learned how to flirt and turn down boys from drag queens who adopted him at the Jungle.

Allison taught him how to trust and how not to, and how to do body shots on the beach.

Lydia taught him how to dress like a queen and behave like a goddess.

His father and his deputies taught him how to be good, and how to not get caught when he wasn’t.

His mother--his mother taught him to love big and risky and beautiful.

Finstock taught him how to wrap his knuckles and how to take a punch.

 

~*~

 

Once a month, Allison and Erica show up in black leather and combat boots and gather up Stiles in his sweats and sloppy tshirt, his skin almost shockingly bare of makeup, and Derek watches with bright eyed concern and curiosity.

“Did you tell him?” Erica asks, and Stiles frowns at his hands as Allison tapes them, and shakes his head.

He’ll find out.

Once a month, Stiles shrugs out of his shirts and boots, his tights and dresses, and slips into crimson shorts edged in white, before he enters a empty ring and tries to beat the hell out of his opponent before he gets knocked on his ass.

He started bare knuckle boxing when he was in high school and Coach Finstock realized just how much aggression was bottled up in Stiles’, and never quite quit.

Lydia says that a boy who loves silk as much as he loves wailing on strangers is the kind of dichotomy that only Stiles could achieve.

 

~*~

 

When he stumbles into the room, Erica’s lips are tight and her eyes are angry and Allison’s hands are gentle as she lowers him on the bed. Derek is up and moving before they actually release Stiles, scrambling for the first aid kit he keeps under his bed before hipchecking Erica out of the way and fussing over Stiles.

His eye is swollen and there’s a cut on his lip that looks vicious, and he’s smiling, dazed, at Derek.

“What happened?” Derek asks, furious and helpless.

“‘Erek. Don’t yell. Too noisy. ‘M fine.”

“He is,” Allison says, grudgingly reassuring. “No concussion, he’s fine. Just put an icepack on his face and we’ll be back with breakfast.”

“What happened?” Derek demands, again.

Erica pauses, and stares at him, and her gaze is full of pity. “It’s the second Wednesday of the month, Derek. Fight night.”

 

~*~

 

Derek is careful when he holds the ice pack to Stiles face, when he dabs the blood away from his cut lip.

He’s careful when he cleans Stiles long, bloody fingers, and wraps them in warm, soft gauze.

He’s careful when he slips Stiles’ shoes off and he only stills when Stiles touches his leg with a gauze wrapped hand as Derek begins to move away. “Stay?” he murmurs, and Derek nods.

 

~*~

 

He’s quiet and still next to Derek as he listens to Derek on the phone.

“What do you know about Fight Night?”

A rumble answers him and Derek tenses. “Find out what you can, yeah?”

He hands up and Stiles finally moves, rolls in his arms and looks up at Derek. He knows he looks like hell, and he feels it too, but Derek--

Derek still looks at him like he’s precious.

“You can ask me, you know?”

Derek hesitates, and then brushes a finger over the bruise on his cheek, and Stiles leans into the caress. “Why do you do it?”

He thinks about it, turns the question over in his mind.

No one has ever asked him that. “Because it’s helped me since I was an angry kid without an outlet. And then--” he shrugs. “Why do you play football?”

“Because I’m good at it. It keeps me here,” Derek answers, promptly, and his gaze is heavy on Stiles, likes _here_ means _with you._

He shivers and licks his lips and says, “That’s why I do it.”

 

~*~

 

Stiles is wearing boots and and a pale pink wrap over his favorite skinny jeans and a rose colored tank top. He’s leaning into the mirror and carefully applying his eyeliner when the door opens and three football players spill in ahead of Derek.

“What the fuck,” one giggles, and Stiles straightens, slowly, the wrap slipping down to cover his ass and when he cocks a smile at them--

“Problem?” he asks, breathy and low and the first one smirks.

“Yeah. You. Fucking freak,”

“Theo,” the big quiet one barks, his dark eyes flashing and Derek is reaching for Theo, but Stiles smirks and sways closer.

“Usually, when pretty boys like you can’t quit staring at me,” Stiles murmurs, “it’s not because they’re disgusted.”

Theo squawks in outrage and swings, wide and wild.

Stiles steps into it, and barely rocks under the punch, smiling bright and furious before he swings, and it’s not wide or wild. It’s controlled and precise, and devastating.

Theo crashes to the ground, cursing and clutching his nose and Stiles doesn’t even look at him as he turns back to finish his makeup

“You wanna insult me,” he says clearly, as he carefully rolls on lipstick. “You’ll wait to do it somewhere other than my fucking house.”

He steps over Theo when he leaves, and only pauses to tip Derek a curious, challenging sort of stare.

Pride and fierce satisfaction and open wonder stare back and Derek’s finger brushes his before he flushes and backs away. Stiles smirks. “Have a good day, sweetheart.”

 

~*~

 

Stiles likes pretty things.

He’s never apologized for it, never bothered even explaining it.

But he still blushes, a little, a pretty flush in his cheeks when Derek looks at him.

They’ve been sharing space and Stiles’ endless supply of sugar, studying and fighting over music, and Stiles had slipped away for a moment, and when he comes back--

He fidgets, a little.

Most of the time, he sleeps in one of the oversized BHSD shirts he stole from home and fluffy pj pants.

This is--not that.

It’s delicate and breathy, black satin slipping against pale skin, and he shifts, nervous. Bruises still stand out against his pale skin, and he licks his lips.

Derek watches him, and he wonders if he’ll ever get over the way Derek stares at him, like he’s something beautiful and wonderful.

He crosses the room and Derek puts his computer aside and his hands come up, easy and natural, cupping his hips as Stiles crawls on the bed. “Can I sleep here, sweetheart?” he murmurs and Derek nods, his eyes wide and lust blown and Stiles _aches_.

 

~*~

 

The first time Derek paints Stiles nails, he’s drunk and giggly, and Stiles is sprawled on his back, his long white t-shirt riding high on his thigh.

Derek is all bare bronze skin and silky black shorts and Stiles has the sudden, ridiculous, urge to steal his basketball shorts and slip them on.

He wonders if they’d slip like silk across his skin.

“What did you think your roommate would be like?” Stiles asks.

He’s never asked that, and the semester is going to end soon, and he suddenly wants to know.

Derek carefully strokes another pass of hot pink onto Stiles’ nails, and says, “I was supposed to be with a guy from the team. Dahler. I don’t know--he got kicked off the team and lost his scholarship during training camp. He was stalking some girl. And by then, everyone was already assigned, so I got put in the general pool of people.”

“And you got stuck with me,” Stiles says, and Derek looks up.

His gaze is bright and soft and Stiles wants to kiss him so much it hurts.

“And I got you,” he murmurs, like it’s the best thing to happen to him ever.

“Do you regret it?”

“No,” Derek says, promptly, and he shifts, crowding into Stiles space, silky shorts rubbing against Stiles’ pale thighs. “No. I love it.”

There’s something else in the words, and Stiles inhales sharply at them, his fingers clenching in the silk of his shorts. His nail polish smears, leaves little trails of pink near Derek's hips, and Stiles is absurdly glad, hopes that every time Derek reaches for them, he sees those pink stains and remembers this, his big body braced over Stiles, and the pounding of their hearts.

 

~*~

 

Allison looks pretty in her tight jeans and UCLA tshirt, blue and gold paint delicate on her cheeks.

Erica looks almost obscene, her skirt so short Stiles can see the edges of her gold panties, her red lips curved into a predatory smile, and still completely at home in the stadium.

Stiles--Stiles registers the press of people, the achingly blue sky, the way people seem to press and give, around them. He can smell the grass and beer soaked into the shirt of the guy on his right, and he can feel the girls to his left, chattering as the team spills onto the field.

Noise builds like a fucking crescendo, a wave that laps at him, and for just a while, watching Derek on that big green field under a big blue sky, his lips pale and pink and turned into a wild happy smile--he’s caught up in it.

 

~*~

 

Derek is sweaty and victorious when Stiles finally catches up to him, and he blushes the prettiest pink when he realizes that Stiles is here, here for _him_.

“You hate football,” Derek mumbles, and catches him as Stiles throws himself at the other boy, catches him like it’s easy, like it’s familiar, like he would always catch Stiles.

He is aware, distantly, of Erica’s predatory gaze on Boyd and the shy smile the kicker is giving Allison, but he’s mostly aware of the way Derek is staring at him, fond and startled sweet and his hands, big hot hands, are on Stiles’ narrow hips and there’s a question he has to answer, because it _matters._

“I like you,” Stiles says, and Derek smiles, bright and pleased.

 

~*~

 

Sometimes, when Derek watches him, he feels those words, the ones he almost heard in Derek's bed, rising between them.

It terrifies him.

He loved three people beyond his dad and Lydia, Allison and Erica.

Three people.

His mother who died.

Scott who gave him up when Stiles put on a dress.

And Jackson.

It terrifies him to think he could love Derek, that Derek could love him.

Terrifies and intrigues him.

 

~*~

 

He learned how to do a fierce cateye from Eric.

He learned how to strut on stage without blushing from the drag queens at the Jungle.

Allison taught him how to shake a guy who didn't want to listen to _no_.

Lydia taught him how accessorize and how to wear lace like armor.

His father and his deputies taught him how flirt with girls and how to be a gentleman.

His mother--his mother taught him never be ashamed of the things he loved.

Heather taught him that value of silk and lace panties.

 

~*~

 

Stiles is sitting on his bed in his long blue robe. The flannel one with little nubs from washing, that’s so soft Derek sometimes nuzzles into it, like it’s a blanket.

He hasn’t washed away his makeup and he watches Derek, and bites his lip as he stands up and comes to sit on Derek’s bed.

“Can I show you something?” he whispers and Derek nods, a smile playing on his lips.

Stiles shifts, up on his knees to kneel on the bed and his fingers tremble as he fumbles with the knot of his robe, and he can feel Derek’s gaze on him, hot and curious and then he goes tense and still, his breath caught in his throat as the robe falls open to reveal the miles of pale, mole speckled skin, and the green lace.

Derek whimpers and Stiles breathes a sigh, rocking forward, before he stops.

“Can--Can I? Touch?” Derek asks, hesitant, his hands fists in the sheets, and Stiles does move then, crawls closer until he’s in Derek’s lap and he drags Derek’s hands up to curl on his hips, the lace scratching against his palms, and he dips down, close enough to press his forehead to Derek’s.

“Please,” he breathes, and Derek’s hands spasm on his hips, on the lace, as he rocks up into Stiles with a low moan.

He kisses Derek like that, cradled in his lap, hands gentle on his hips, pressing his lace clad erection down into Derek’s hard dick, and it should be dirty, should be filth and sex and a rough rush to climax.

It’s sweet. Gentle. A slow glide of lips and low gasps, and the sharp nip of teeth before they part and Stiles watches him blink up, eyes blown with hunger and adoration.

 

~*~

 

He smiles, when he comes back from Thanksgiving break and finds three pair of panties in a tiny gift bag on his bed. There’s a black pair, satin edged with crimson lace. A white pair with a red bow resting above his ass. And a pair the color of wine, so delicate he almost comes just running his fingers over them.

He pulls them on, carefully, one after the other, and takes pictures sprawled in Derek’s dark sheets, that he sends to Derek, before he falls asleep there, in Derek’s bed and a oversized tshirt and panties Derek gave him.

 

~*~

 

Stiles loves pretty things and comic books and food, and presents.

Derek--he loves the look of startled delight when he comes in and drops a comic book in Stiles lap, when he unfolds a new dress over his bed, when he brings out shiny bottles of nail polish and a new Marvel movie and spends the first thirty minutes carefully painting Stils’ nails.

“I don't need presents, sweetheart,” he protests sometimes and Derek flushes, pretty pink and bashful and shrugs.

“But they make you happy,” he points out, like that's all that matters and Stiles thinks that maybe for Derek it _is._

 

~*~

 

They don't talk about what they're doing, what they are.

But Derek doesn't date, carefully pushes away pretty girls who see the blue and gold and opportunity.

Stiles doesn't hook up when the girls tug him into clubs, slips away from the grasping hands and leering smiles and returns, alone.

They don't talk about the fact that they  spend so much time together, the fact that Derek leaves presents for Stiles, that both would rather argue over the best TV shows of the nineties and politics and conservation instead of going out on Saturday nights.

They don't talk about this: Stiles on his knees, rocking on a thick black dildo, and Derek, open mouth and panting, big hand tight on his red cock, eyes fixed on Stiles.

He's naked, and the silk of Stiles’ skirt slips over his ankles, cool and tantalizing, a shocking contrast to the rough tug on his dick.

“You look so good like that, sweetheart,” Stiles gasps, arching as he sinks down on the dildo. “Look so pretty for me.”

Derek whines and twists on the upstroke, gasping in pleasure and Stiles groans, bouncing on the dildo now.

“Come for me,” he begs, and Derek shouts. “Come for me, sweetheart.”

He does and Stiles moans at the sight, tan skin splattered white and comes, wet and messy over his fist.

 

~*~

 

He's half asleep when he sees Derek slipping a scrap of lace from his bag and suddenly, he's painfully awake.

“Let me see,” he demands or begs or both. Derek pauses, and then lays them out and Stiles’ breath catches. They're pale pink, gossamer delicate lace and silk, and he wants to see Derek in them.

“Will you wear them for me?” he asks, his voice trembling and Derek nods. He closes his eyes, because he can't look at Derek pulling on those panties and not come all over himself. And because he wants the full picture.

Still, he can't help the way he listens, the the scratch of lace on skin, the tiny gasp Derek makes, the snap of elastic against skin and the sound of rough hands smoothing over lace and silk.

“Hey,” Derek whispers, his voice a secret between them, and Stiles slowly looks at him.

He’s washed in the dim light of the desk, and Stiles can see the pale panties, curved over his narrow waist, cupping his half-hard cock, stretched almost obscenely around his thick thighs.

He looks gorgeous, and Stiles reaches for him, draws Derek close by the light grip he has on Derek’s hands and murmurs, against his lips, “You are so beautiful, sweetheart.”

 

~*~

 

Lydia asks about it. She’s got a pretty stitch between her brows, and her worried face on when she stares at him on the screen. “What are you doing?”

Allison and Erica and Mason leave him alone about Derek.

Stiles doesn’t talk about him, about the small fragile thing growing between them, and they don’t press.

Lydia has never had that kind of restraint. “You remember what happened last time you fell for a guy like Derek?” she demands, and Stiles flinches.

He does.

He remembers Jackson, and the way he’d been completely wrapped up in him.

The way Jackson had doled out kisses like a reward, and never touched him when he was in flannel and jeans.

The way he smirked and called Stiles his pretty little girl.

He remembers the nights, going home and throwing up, because he could hear Jackson panting about his tight cunt, about how he was just as good as a girl, and Stiles loved him, he _loved_ him, so he swallowed it down, the wrong not right feeling of it.

It was a fetish, and kink shaming was wrong, and--Jackson loved him.

He repeated the same arguments, over and over and over, until he caught Jackson with a pretty blonde boy from the club, his fingers twisted in long golden hair as he fucked his mouth, and moaned, “Such a good girl for me.”

“Derek isn’t like Jackson,” he says, and his voice wobbles, a little.

He doesn’t want Derek to be like Jackson. He wants this. Wants this one good thing, wants _Derek_ who never stops staring at him in awe, not even when--

“I’m gonna bring him to Fight Night,” Stiles says, and Lydia’s face crunches thoughtfully before she nods.

“Stiles,” she says, apology in her tone and he smiles at her.

“Don’t apologize, goddess. Not for protecting me.”

She smiles, then, and it’s a little sad, but it’s there and his, and he loves her for it.

 

~*~

 

Lydia’s fear isn’t unfounded.

And she was the one who held him together, after Jackson. The one who kept Jackson away and tucked Stiles into bed drunk, and made sure the Sheriff was fed because Stiles was too wrapped up in grief to remember.

She was the one who bullied him into nights with the girls, and going to the club to see the queens, and stalked at his side during senior year like a avenging angel, daring anyone to hurt him again.

She saved him, and he knows it.

Just like she knows he did the same thing when he sat down and told her she didn’t have to hide behind a pretty mask and then showed her how to take it off.

 

~*~

 

Stiles kisses Derek once, before he slips out the car.

Erica smirks and drags him behind her as she prances into the warehouse. She’s greeted with cheers and catcalls and Derek bristles, defensive.

Erica eats it up, sways through them like sex in black leather and Allison comes behind, a bit more sedate, and takes the bets.

It’s so calculated and well done, Derek almost doesn’t realize it’s done and then he does--he realizes these beautiful girls who never leave Stiles alone, are still taking care of him.

Then Stiles steps into the ring and he forgets them altogether.

Stiles fights like a demon, like he’s got something to prove, all grace and fury. He takes hits, but only if it opens up the opportunity to hit back, harder and stronger.

He’s beautiful, sweaty and muscles playing lithe and strong under his skin, and Derek can’t look away.

Once, Stiles glances at him, a smile flickers in his eyes, before he winks and turns his attention back to the fight and Erica whistles. “Sweetheart is the real fucking deal,” she mutters and Allison hums agreement and Derek blushes, but he doesn’t look away.

 

~*~

 

Derek has a plethora of friends--his teammates and people from class, a few friends from home and a couple that his sister insist he’d love.

He doesn’t.

He tolerates them, and prefers the quiet of their dorm room, the dark and a thick book, and Stiles, laughing and bright and argumentative and _loud._

Stiles doesn’t have many friends. There are a few people he texts, for class or notes, but there is mostly only Mason and Allison and Erica, and Lydia.

There is his dad, who he calls almost religiously and texts constantly.

Sometimes he thinks Derek wonders why he is so insular.

Most of the time, he thinks Derek is just happy he doesn’t have anyone else around him--Erica and Allison are formidable, and Mason is a puppy but he’s defensive of those he cares about and he’s a puppy with teeth.

“I like him,” Erica pronounces, one day not long after Fight Night, when Derek yawns and asks, sleepily, if they want to order pizza.

“You like pizza,” Stiles says, his voice emerging from Allison’s curls.

“Yeah, but I like _him._ ”

“I do, too,” Allison mumbles, nuzzling deeper into his pillow and he smiles, fondly, at the girls and Derek’s wide eyed, hesitant smile.

“Me, too,” he says and Derek blushes.

Then Stiles crawls out of his bed and says, “Let’s get fish tacos.”

 

~*~

 

He wears black leather pants, two inch heels and a faded red flannel. Slides on lipstick and eyeliner, and gives his girls a tremulous smile.

He knows that Derek likes him. That he likes Stiles pretty and sweaty and lazy and sharp. He _knows._

But they have never taken that beyond the confines of their dorm room and the kiss in the car on Fight Night, and this--

He takes a deep breath and goes.

Derek is pressed against a wall, surrounded by Boyd and Isaac, when Stiles comes into the party, and he sees it, the pleased, startled smile Derek tips toward him, the way the two flanking him straighten as they take in the girls at Stiles’ side.

He wants a drink, and he wants the quiet of their bedroom, and he wants more than a lace shield.

But mostly. More than any of that. He wants Derek.

He can feel eyes on him, but that’s not strange, he always feels eyes on him.

He can hear whispers, and that’s not unusual because he can always hear whispers about him.

He doesn’t care about those, not really.

He only cares about the boy in front of him, that bright look in his eyes that says _Stiles_ is beautiful.

Not the lace or the silk or the makeup or the boy in the ring.

Just Stiles.

He walks until he’s pressed against Derek’s chest, his boots framed by Derek’s, Derek’s hands on his hips as Stiles dips in and--he hesitates, a heartbeat, a question, and Derek’s grip tightens on his hips--kisses him, sweet and chaste. Derek moans a little, almost lost in the whispers and the music, but Stiles can feel it vibrate against his chest, and he smiles as he pulls away.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “dance with me.”

 

~*~

 

They leave sooner than Derek anticipates, but later than Stiles wants.

They dance and Stiles lets Derek wrap around him while they talk to others, people neither of them really care about.

Once, Stiles leans up and murmurs, “I'm wearing the crimson panties you bought me.” He smirks at the desperate look in Derek's eyes before he sways away and does two shots with Allison.

Neither of them really care about the party. And soon enough, Stiles is done, vibrating with impatience as he drags Derek out of the party.

Derek doesn't touch him on the walk back to their dorm, nothing more than a hand on Stiles’ back, careful and light.

It's maddening and intoxicating.

He giggles, breathless and delighted, when Derek pushes him into the door as soon as it closes behind them, crowds him there and kisses him.

Before, they've kissed almost chastely. In a way that could be dismissed as meaningless, teasing.

This.

This is desperate and filthy and demanding and Stiles moans into it, melts under it, presses back just as hard as Derek, completely lost under the slide of thick lips and nip of sharp teeth and the deep wet glide that makes him ache. He tilts his head back, up, baring his throat and moans.

“Derek. Derek. I need--” he moans when Derek bites him, arching into the sharp press of teeth and heavy body.

“Please,” he whimpers. “Please.”

 

~*~

 

Derek doesn't fuck him.

He thinks its sappy and ridiculous but there isn't anyway to call it anything but making love.

There is too much care in the way Derek peels him out of everything but his panties.

Too much reverence in the way Derek kisses him.

Too much awe in the way Derek watches him as he carefully stretches Stiles open.

Its gentle and coaxing and every touch is wonderous.

And Stiles preens under it, melts under it, begs for more, sighing prettily when Derek pushes into him, fills him with rolling thrusts, the panties caught on Stiles ankle and nothing between them but skin and hunger and delicate wonder.

He wants to call it fucking and he can't because Derek _worships_ him.

As Stiles gasps his name and clutches his face and sobs through his orgasm, he realizes--he does the same for Derek.

 

~*~

 

The semester ends in a rush of finals and lazy sex and sticky kisses and Stiles takes Derek home when it does.

Home to his father, who eyes the shy hulking jock and smiles at his son while shaking his head.

Home to his surrogate family of deputies who wander past Derek at the annual Christmas party, one by one, giving him a shovel talk, while Stiles chats with city councilmen.

He's in a black suit and tie and looks respectable and beautiful and he told Derek he was wearing red silk panties, because torturing his boyfriend is his new favorite hobby.

He takes Derek home to meet his mother and explains how much she loved pretty dresses; home to meet the drag queens who eye Derek with skeptical eyes and Stiles with open adoration.

He takes Derek home to Lydia and she watches. Watches as Derek stares at Stiles--in lace and long dresses and sweats and flannel, he never looks away.

He watches Stiles like a sailor watches Polaris, like it's the only thing guiding him home.

“Keep him,” she says and Stiles grins.

“I plan to.”

 

~*~

 

On Christmas, Derek wakes him with a kiss and tells him about his family, all of them dead now except an uncle.

“Thank you,” Derek murmurs. “For sharing your family with me.”

“Of course, sweetheart,” Stiles says and he means it.

He means it too when he says, softly, against Derek's back while he thrusts into Derek, “I love you, Derek.”

He means it, and that is not as terrifying as he thought it would be.

 

~*~

 

He learned how to be strong and when to be weak from Erica.

He learned how to ignore the world and live in his own skin from the drag queens at the Jungle.

Allison taught him how to grieve and how to laugh.

Lydia taught him how let go of impossible dreams and how letting go could make room for something infinitely better.

His father and his deputies taught him how play poker and how to read lies.

His mother--his mother taught him to have an open heart and a realistic view of the world and that coffee is best hot and uninterrupted, but friends are always better than coffee.

Derek taught him how to love.

  
  
  



End file.
